rt        LADY  HARCOURT 

LONDON,  Oct.  25  U&  —  Lady 
Harcourt,  a  retired  concert  pianist 
,and  wife  of  Admiral  Sir  Cecil  Har- 
1  court,  a  Royal  Navy  chief  of  per< 
1  sonnel,  died  at  her  home  here  yes- 
terday.    Lady    Harcourt    was    the 
mother-in-law  of  Yehudi  Menuhi" 
violinist. 

She  appeared  on  concert  stages 
and  with  leading  symphony  orches- 
tras throughout  Europe  under  her 
maiden  name  of  Evelyn  Saurt  u 
the  years  before  the  first  World 
War. 


Lady  Harcourt  was  born  in  In 
dia    a  daughter  of  the  late  Briga-, 
dier    General    Suart.    She    studied 
piano  under  Leschetisky  in  Vienna 
where   she  made  her  professional 
1  debut.  In  1910  she  was  heard  with 
the   Warsaw    and    Berlin   Philhar- 
monic Orchestras.  She  established 
attendance  records  at  the  Saturday 
and    Monday    "Pops"    concerts    m 
London.  In  1930-32  she  was  presi- 
dent of  the  Society  of  Women  Mu- 
sicians. 

Lady  Harcourt  was  married 
1910  to  Gte^d-^fQl^&f  who  died  in 
1916.  Their  daughter,  Diana,  be- 
came the  second  wife  of  Menuhin 
in  1947.  Admiral  Harcourt  married 
Mrs.  Gould  in  1920. 


«f 


I  / 


GERALD  GOULD 


Collected    PoBma.      By   Gerald    Gould.       $3S00. 
New   York:    Payaon    and    Clarke,    Ltd. 

MR.  GOULD  is  primarily  an  academic 
poet;  he  is  a  graduate  of  Magdalen 
College,  Oxford,  and  was.,  for  some 
time  a  lecturer  at  University  College, 
London.  Despite  'his  present  interest. 
In  journalism,  his  Is  primarily  the  aca- 
demic point  of  view,  the  classical  tradi- 
tion. Not  that  this  Is  a  defect  especially 
in  Mr.  Gould's  hands.  He  makes  the 
old  forms  seem  more  adequate,  more 
vitally  fresh  than  do  the  modernists' 
irregularities.  Harmony,  thoughtfulness, 
tranquillity,  appreciation  of  the  finer  es- 
sences of  life — these  are  his  outstand- 
ing qualities.  His  rhymes  are  pleasant- 
ly varied;  his  Imagery  full  of  color  and 
spontaneous;  his  themes  essentially  those 
of  a  scholar  arid  a  gentleman.  Some  of 
his  poems  reflect  the  spirit  of  English 
country  side;  the  whole  group  on  the 
Mountain  Eagle,  for  example.  Others 
are  more  reflective — the  sonnets  and  the 
group  "Poems  for  One  Person."  The 
many  sonnets  are  decidedly  philosophical 
and  while  not  at  all  new  or  startling, 
are  most  satisfying  as  giving  a  sense  of 
permanence  to  what  everyone  longs  to 
feel  will  endure. 

Others   of   the   sonnets  are  a  bit  des- 
pairing In  their  tone,  such  as: 
For  love   is  born   in  pain  and  bred  to  loss; 
Others  it  saves,  itself  it  cannot  save; 
Its  dreams  are  thick  with  fears  past  dreaming 

of; 

The  lover   is   naked;  all  he  had,   he  gave; 
Only  he  bears,    as  Christ  bore,   his  own  cross. 
The    burden    of    intolerable    love. 

Mr.  Gould  has  proved  he  has  a  gen- 
uine vein  of  inspiration;  he  Is  simple 
'  without  extravagances  of  thought,  feel- 
Ing  or  expression;  his  verse  will  respond 
to  a  wide  variety  of  moods  but  they 
also  show  always  a  decent  reticence  for 
the  Inviolable  secrets  of  the  human 
heart. 


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POEMS 


By 

\GERALD    GOULD 


NEW  YORK 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 
MCMXII 


AUGUST  i   1924 


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The    armour    that    you    ought    to 

wear!  .  . 

For,   when   your  friends   and   fights 

The^hnfg°nyo'u  fought  for  will  be 

there. 

—From    "The    Collected    Poems    of 
GEBALD  Gorxo." 


To 

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AUTHOR'S  NOTE 

THE  Author  begs  to  thank  the  Editors  of  the 
following  papers  for  their  courtesy  in  allowing 
him  to  reprint  some  of  the  poems  in  this  book : — 
The  Fortnightly  Review,  the  English  Review, 
McClure'g  Magazine,  the  Thrush,  the  Tramp, 
the  Neolith,  the  Spectator,  the  Oxford  Magazine, 
the  New  Age,  the  Westminster  Gazette,  the  Pall 
Mall  Gazette  and  the  Evening  Standard  and 
St.  James's  Gazette. 


Welcome 

Gerald  Gould,   in  London  Observer. 

It  has  come  back — and  who  but  you  should 

brine:  it? 
What    beauty    but    your    beauty    should 

compel 
Oat    of    the    silence    one    great    bell,     and 

ring   it 

As   though    the   night   of   stars   were   one 
.    rreat  bell? 

It   has   come   back — and   gonfalon   and  pen- 
nant 

Break  into  crimson  blossom  at  a  word 
A    word    like    whirlwinds,    with    a   dream 

for  tenant 

That   was  not   spoken — and  .that  was  not 
heard. 

Ct  has  come  back — and  I.   whose  lips  hare 

waited. 

Silent,  in  .awe,  the  touch  of  fire  and  dew. 
Tind  silence  turn  to  music,  as  was  fated 
— And.   at   the  blind  heart  of  the   music, 
you. 


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LONESOMENESS 

A  CHILD  went  down  to  the  sea-shore  to  find 

Shells  and  bright  stones,  the  means  of  happiness. 

The  hush  of  waves,  scarce  broken  to  confess 

That  old  reiterate  trouble  undivined, 

In  casual  splash  and  sob  along  the  beach, 

Seemed  almost  willing  now  at  last  to  teach 

Its  secret,  to  a  mind 

So  tender  and  so  tranquil  and  so  free. 

The  sun  was  golden  all  about  the  sea, 

With  here  and  there  a  sail, 

Remote  and  strange  and  frail, 

Fantastically  floating  in  the  haze, 

Lost  in  the  beauty  of  this  day  of  days 

Thus  sanctified  and  sundered  from  the  years — 

A  world  so  fair  it  scarcely  seemed  to  be. 

So  stood  the  child  at  gaze  ; 

And  they  that  found  him  found  him  full  of  tears 

Beneath  the  benediction  of  the  sky — 

A  little  figure  passionately  crying  ; 

And  at  his  feet  the  shells  and  stones  were  lying 

Unheeded — and  he  could  not  tell  them  why. 


to  POEMS 


II 


HERE  are  the  heights  and  spaces  ;  here,  in    view 
Of  love  and  death,  the  silence  and  the  sky, 
We  are  content  to  put  contentment  by 

And  work  our  sad  salvation  out  anew. 

Here,  all  mean  ways  of  living,  all  untrue 
Measures  of  life,  are  done  with  :  you  and  I 
Can  gauge  our  deeds  by  God's  eternity, 

And  find  the  right  a  simple  thing  to  do. 

But  when  the  uplifting  moment  passes — when 
The  pitiful  happenings  of  everyday 

Encompass  us,  and  windy  words  of  men — 
Will  not  the  years  beset,  perhaps   betray  ? 
Now,  'tis  not  hard  to  plan  the   perfect  way : 

Will  it  be  easy  to  walk  in  it  then  ? 


POEMS  ii 


III 

You  walk  in  a  strange  way, 

Your  motions  sing  ; 
Your  eyes  have  a  thing  to  say, 

A  secret  thing. 

Your  speech  is  soft  as  the  sighs 

Of  the  blown  South ; 
Your  face  is  a  flower  to  mine  eyes, 

A  flame  to  my  mouth. 


12  POEMS 


IV 
MORTALIA 

SING  to  me  now  no  more,  my  dear ;  the  tenderness 
Of  what  you  sang  abides  about  this  heart  of  mine 

As  the  sea-spray  and  long  sea-cadences  possess 
Some  stark  and  sombre  cave  that  fronts  the  far 
sea-line. 

The  song  was  glad,  I  know,  and  you  were  glad  to  let 
The  prisoned  music  leave  your  soul ;  yet,  whence 

the  sting, 
That  sorrow  should  rise  up,  and  blind  and  dumb 

regret, 

Because  your  eyes  and  voice  are  happy  when  you 
sing  ? 

It  is  not  hard  for  you,  you  know  not  why,  to  change 
Life  and  the  quiet  places  we  inhabit  here 

Into  a  pageant  of  the  hopes  and  fears  that  range 
The  highways  of  the  heart,  where  hope  is  one  with 
fear. 


POEMS  13 

Your  voice  is  as  a  mist,  wherethrough  the  senses  see  : 
A  King  goes  forth — I  know  the  things  the  trumpet 
saith : 

Here  by  the  dim  fireside,  my  head  upon  your  knee, 
I  watch  a  thousand  spears  travel  the  way  of  death. 

The  hollow  halls  of  night  are  hung  with  all  their  fires  ; 

Dawn  shows  the  shining  ships,  grey  gulls  and  silver 

sand; 
The  cities  of  my  dream  assault  the  sky  with  spires, 

Pale  to  the  sun  and  moon,  the  lures  of  fairy-land. 

Your  singing  stays  about  the  chambers  of  my  blood 
As  bird-songs  in  the  haunts  of  summer  twilight 

stay; 

Your  singing  fills  my  heart  as  evening  fills  the  wood, 
When  all  the  boughs  are  black  and  all  the  spaces 
grey; 

So,  sing  to  me  no  more,  but  let  the  silence  speak 
Far  through  a  mist  of  tears,  out  of  a  secret  place  : 

Sing  to  me  now  no  more,  my  dear,  but  bring  your 

cheek 
Nigh  unto  mine,  and  loose  your  hair  about  my  face. 


14  POEMS 


V 
A  SONG  OF  DEMOCRACY 

I  HEARD  a  voice  across  the  grey 
Such  as  might  be  a  comrade's  voice, 
Elect  of  elemental  choice 

To  give  me  greeting  on  my  way — 
Appointed  through  the  dusk  to  send 
The  apt  inflections  of  a  friend 

With  fond  familiar  things  to  say — 

0  I  think  your  path  is  mine,"  it  said, 
"  But  whither,  neither  of  us  knows — 
Only  the  mist  about  us  flows, 

Only  the  drifting  dark  is  shed — 

If  I  came  nigh  and  touched  your  hand 
We  both  should  better  understand, 

Perhaps,  the  wherefore  of  our  tread." 

Then  I  became  aware  of  much 
Surrounding  motion — many  feet, 
With  no  loud  emphasis  of  beat, 

All  stepping  softly  by  me — such 
A  tremor  of  companionship 
As  stabs  the  blood  when  lip  to  lip 

The  lover  and  his  lady  touch. 


POEMS  15 

Soft  as  the  sob  of  mountain  springs 

Faint-heard  across  the  slopes  of  heather ; 

Soft  as  when  aspens  shake  together; 
Soft  as  the  whirr  of  homeward  wings 

That  draw  in  flight  from  far  away 

And  fan  the  fading  last  of  day 
On  pleasant  summer  evenings. 

So  soft,  so  intimate  and  dear, 

,    The  rustle  that  my  comrades  wrought ; 
And  through  the  shadowland  I  thought 

I  saw  them  shadowlike  draw  near  ; 
And  wonderful  it  was  to  me 
The  instance  of  their  march  to  see, 

The  whisper  of  their  march  to  hear. 


I  saw  them  gods  of  ancient  time, 
And  servants  of  the  sword  and  soil, 
Women  grown  bitter  old  with  toil, 

And  queens  of  beauty  known  to  rhyme, 
And  boys  whose  virtue  was  but  trust 
In  exaltation  out  of  dust 

To  where  the  stars  of  morning  chime. 

Always  the  drifting  darkness  drew, 
Between  me  and  the  shapes  I  saw, 
A  curtain  such  as  customs  draw 


16  POEMS 

Between  the  false  life  and  the  true ; 
Yet  I  was  troubled  not,  but  went 
In  company  with  them,  content, 

Because  they  smiled  from  eyes  I  knew  i 

Oh  welcome  as  the  widening  light 
That  shows  the  morning  beautiful ! 
Oh  welcome  as  the  calm  and  cool 

Caresses  of  the  healing  night ! 
Oh  welcome  as  a  kiss  in  Spring, 
Was  unto  me  the  journeying 

With  friends  beside  me,  left  and  right ! 

It  seemed  that  they  came  singing,  all 
Touched  by  the  tongues  of  unseen  fire  ; 
They  sang  as  though  to  them  desire 

Were  ordered  and  made  musical» 
Their  singing  bred  no  louder  sound 
Than  did  their  going  on  the  ground, 

Their  rhythmic  numerous  footfall. 

They  held  my  hands  on  either  side — 
"  We  are  the  folk  of  hand-in-hand, 
We  are  the  folk  who  understand," 

Their  song  said,  and  my  heart  replied  ; 
And  through  the  growing  concourse  ran 
The  knowledge  of  the  love  of  man 

Wherein  our  faith  is  justified, 


POEMS  17 


VI 

WHAT  of  the  fingers  that  grope 
When  the  blindness  of  sorrow  stings  ? 

What  of  the  heart  empty  of  hope 
And  the  sky  empty  of  wings  ? 

The  birds  are  away  to  bed ; 

Come  home,  come  home,  my  dear; 
Come  where  the  pillow  of  faith  is  spread 

And  comfort  nestles  near. 

You  do  not  know  the  way 

Nor  me  who  would  be  your  guide ; 
You  have  forgotten  my  voice,  you  say, 

And  laid  your  faith  aside. 

The  birds  are  away  to  rest 

And  the  night  falls,  falls ; 
Would  not  the  drawn  blinds  be  best, 

And  the  four  friendly  walls  ? 

Never  bid  me  goj 

Deny  me  not  in  your  pain  1 
The  voice  that  you  have  forgotten  so 

You  shall  remember  again. 

B 


i8  POEMS 


VII 

SINCE  the  child  died 

I  have  made  her  a  wreath  of  roses, 
For  this  is  the  summer-tide, 

When  the  fairest  flower  uncloses : 
With  roses  red  and  white 

I  have  made  the  grave  look  glad 
Where  she  lies  out  of  sight 

Who  was  all  I  had. 


If  ever  I  love  another  child 

And  if  she  is  gay, 
I  shall  think  how  this  one  smiled 

Who  lies  here  to-day  ; 
I  shall  tremble  to  feel  her  stir, 

Lest  she  pass  too  far,  too  far, 
And  lie  along  with  her 

For  whom  these  roses  are. 


POEMS  19 


VIII 
HOPES  AND  DREAMS 

You  come  to  me  upon  my  dreams 

Like  a  white  sail  on  twilight  seas, 

Or  as  a  moving  music  seems 

To  swim  on  silence  to  its  close. 

My  hopes — how  far  you  pass  from  those  ! 

My  dreams — how  sure  you  are  of  these  ! 

All  things  are  novel  since  love  came ; 

Through  the  dim  chapel  of  my  heart 

You  walk  with  ministering  flame 

To  light  the  candles  of  surprise. 

My  hopes — how  teach  them  to  be  wise  ? 

My  dreams — how  bid  them  to  depart  ? 

The  thought  of  you  is  swift  and  strange 

To  find  me  out — because  of  you 

I  think  my  very  self  shall  change, 

And  grow  in  tune  with  what  you  are. 

My  hopes — are  they  indeed  so  far  ? 

My  dreams — shall  they  perhaps  come  true  ? 


ao  POEMS 


IX 

THE  SPELL 

BEFORE  the  night  was  cloven 
Or  morning's  spears  aflame, 

I  knew  the  spell  was  woven 
To  bind  the  day  that  came  : 

It  seemed  the  great  earth  trembled, 
The  wind  was  strange  and  shy, 

The  ancient  seas  dissembled 
Their  lone  and  boding  cry  ; 

And,  as  the  sap  that  rises 
Disturbs  the  heart  of  spring, 

The  sense  of  near  surprises 
Made  all  my  pulses  sing. 

Blind  hope  and  phantom  warning 
Are  vaguely  touched  with  fire — 

My  heart  has  faced  the  morning, 
Desiring  to  desire ! 


POEMS  ai 

And  now  the  hills  have  framed  you, 

Advancing  careless  yet, 
And  now  my  lips  have  named  you, 

And  now  my  hands  have  met. 

Oh  light  of  eyes  uplifted  ! 

Oh  pang  of  love  begun  ! 
Our  wandering  lives  have  drifted 

How  strangely  into  one ! 


22  POEMS 


X 

THE  LIFE  AT  EASE 

WARM  fire,  what  of  the  bitter  mist  outside  ? 

Dear  love,  what  of  the  many  unbefriended  ? 

Bright  hope,  what  of  the  thousand  journeys  ended 
In  graves  unheard-of,  neither  deep  nor  wide  ? — 
This,  that  the  old  world  will  not  be  denied 

Tumult  and  tears  to  prove  the  victory  splendid  ; 

By  the  sad  hands  of  Death  is  Beauty  tended, 
And  the  heart  of  trouble  is  the  heart  of  pride. 

But  not  this  only — rather  let  me  learn 
That  if  the  fire  die  down,  the  hope  pass  by, 
And  love  go  from  me,  then  no  less  must  I 
Take  up  the  inexplicable  quest  in  turn, 
Drive  through  the  mist,  live  out  the  days  that  yearn, 
Fight  as  my  friends  fight,  die  the  death  they  die. 


POEMS  23 


XI 
APPLE-BLOSSOM 

APPLE- BLOSSOM,  like  my  lady's  cheek 
Flushing  with  the  first  clear  light  of  day, 

Apple-blossom,  how  am  I  to  speak 
Love  in  such  a  way 

That  my  lady  need  no  further  seek 
What  to  her  heart  shall  the  world's  heart  say  ? 

Apple-blossom,  you  that  take  the  morn, 
You  are  sunny,  you  are  windy,  you 

Always  like  an  ecstasy  have  worn 
Colour  and  the  dew, 

Since  that  first  sweet  hour  when  you  were  born, 
And  before  your  eyes  the  Spring  was  new ! 

Apple-blossom,  like  my  lady  made, 

Like  my  lady  delicate  and  dear, 
Apple-blossom,  need  I  be  afraid  ? 

Draws  my  lady  near, 
Gentle  as  are  you,  like  you  arrayed 

In  the  flower  and  fragrance  of  the  year ! 


24  POEMS 

Apple-blossom,  see,  I  hold  her  hand, 
Kiss  her  on  red  lips  and  eyes  of  grey, 

Eyes  that  now  awaking  understand 
What  my  own  eyes  say  ! — 

Apple-blossom,  all  your  joy  was  planned 
Just  to  crown  this  joy  of  mine  to-day  ! 


POEMS  25 


XII 
SPRING 

A  SWEET  child  lover 

Dreamed  to  the  south ; 
The  Spring  came  over 

And  kissed  her  mouth  ; 
The  Spring  came  over 

The  shining  sea 
To  make  lover  and  lover 

Of  her  and  me. 

And  the  child  said,  "  O  Wings 

And  voices  and  flowers, 
If  we  are  the  Spring's, 

You  must  be  ours ! 
Just  this  Spring  of  Springs 

Let  me  think  it's  for  me 
That  the  voices  and  wings 

Have  come  over  the  sea ! " 


26  POEMS 


XIII 
NIGHT 

You  are  full  of  grieving, 

Night  of  quiet  eyes  and  shadowed  brow ; 
Here's  for  your  receiving 

Sorrow  to  your  sorrow ;    take  it  now. 

Sunshine  flashed  and  faltered 

All  day  long  to  make  the  waters  bright ; 
Now  the  seas  are  altered 

To  the  mournful  measure  of  the  night. 

Day  was  full  of  doing, 

Full  of  stir  and  purpose  and  surprise  ; 
Come  I  now  to  wooing 

Of  your  patient  hands   and  starry  eyes. 

When  you  let  your  fingers 
Close  upon  the  fever  of  my  cheeks, 

Lo  !  the  moment  lingers, 
Time  stands  still,  and  out  of  silence  speaks 


POEMS  27 

Soon,  the  murmuring  morrow ; 

Soon,  the  things  that  only  sound  and  seem  ; 
Yours,  the  ancient  sorrow, 

Yours,  the  understanding  and  the  dream. 

Mine,  the  pain  forecasting 

Other  pains  as  transient  as  the  first ; 
Yours,  the  everlasting 

Knowledge  of  the  best  thing  and  the  worst. 

All  uncomprehended 

Aims,  and  efforts  failing  of  the  mark, 
Here  are  raised  and  blended 

With  the  calm  and  uncomplaining  dark. 

Slightest  things  and  spacious 

Here  are  merged,  and  fitful  and  profound ; 
Gloom  to  light  is  gracious 

And  the  silence  is  made  one  with  sound. 

Memory  grows  forgetful, 

Pain  is  one  with  peace  and  bane  with  balm  ; 
Times  and  tides  are  fretful, 

But  Eternity  is  full  of  calm. 


28  POEMS 


XIV 
LIGHT  LOVE 

GIVE  me  not  passion — not  the  touch 
Of  lips  and  limbs  that  yield  too  much — 
Not  the  close  shuddering  shaken  kiss 
That  says  "  A  heart  must  break  for  this," 
But  laughing  kisses,  soft  and  light 
As  these  grey  moths  that  cloud  the  night, 
And  the  half-whimsical  caress 
That  hints,  not  masters,  happiness. 


Sing  me  not  songs  that  have  their  source 
In  raptures  perilous  perforce — 
Not  notes  that  climb  the  tragic  stairs, 
But  delicate  and  dancing  airs, 
As  inconsiderate  as  those  gleams 
From  eyes  like  star-bewildered  streams, 
Those  locks  incontinently  tossed 
Round  brows  too  lovely  to  be  lost. 


POEMS  29 

So,  when  the  summer  night  is  spent, 
Take  back  what  you  not  gave  but  lent, 
And  lay  at  some  more  stable  shrine 
The  gift  I  never  claimed  for  mine. 
Ah  !  come  not  when  the  winter  weeps, 
With  pallid  mouth  to  haunt  my  sleeps, 
Or  hands  that  tremble  at  my  door 
To  mind  me  of  what  went  before. 


30  POEMS 

XV 

MOMENTS 

WE  live  in  moments — children  at  their  play, 
Creatures  of  storm  and  sunshine  all  life  long  ; 
A  shower  of  rain  can  set  the  whole  world  wrong, 

And  if  a  shadow  stain  the  shining  day, 

Or  a  cloud  come  upon  the  face  of  May, 
We  have  forgotten  all  the  joys  that  throng 
About  our  path — the  life,  the  love,  the  song 

Of  birds,  the  bloom  of  buds,  the  scent  of  hay. 

We  live  in  moments.     In  the  midst  of  dearth 
And  blight  and  hunger  and  remembrance  sore, 
If  but  a  ripple  break  along  the  shore, 
Or  a  wan  sunbeam  win  a  strenuous  birth, 
Joy  and  oblivion  come  upon  the  earth. 
We  live  in  moments.     God  be  praised  therefor  ! 


POEMS  31 


XVI 

OH  you  forget  and  you  forgive, 
And  you  take  up  your  life  anew, 

But  what's  in  life  for  me  to  live, 
Forgiven  and  forgot  by  you  ? 

If  there  were  any  heav'n  beside 
The  blueness  of  your  eyes,  maybe 

I  yet  might  find  a  way,  for  pride 

Should  succour,  hope  should  set  me  free. 

I  yet  might  seek  the  assuaging  hour 
Between  the  north  wind  and  the  south, 

If  the  whole  world  had  any  flower 
Beside  the  sweetness  of  your  mouth. 

But  you  were  rich  where  I  was  poor, 
And  you  gave  all  where  I  gave  nought ; 

Your  loss  is  nothing  ;    I  endure 
A  loss  in  you  that  passes  thought. 

Rather  forgive  me  not  at  all, 
But  keep  one  dream  of  me  at  least, 

Where  sorrow  may  hold  festival 
And  bid  remembrance  to  the  feast. 


32  POEMS 

I  know  you  will  not — you  and  chance 
Are  plighted  friends  to  live  and  die  ; 

You  set  the  happy  hours  to  dance 
The  measures  of  your  mirth — and  I — 

As  one  that  lingers  by  the  porch 
And  hears  the  music's  beating  bars 

Flare  up  and  flicker  like  a  torch 
And  triumph  in  a  storm  of  stars  ; 

Lured  from  the  cold  nocturnal  clime, 
The  grey  unkindness  of  the  street, 

In  brain  and  blood  he  keeps  the  time 
Of  all  the  dreamy-dancing  feet ; 

The  clinking  glass,  the  laden  plates, 
The  stir,  the  laughter  and  the  light, 

Torment  his  homelessness ;  he  hates 
The  wide  inhospitable  night — 

So  on  the  threshold  of  your  heart 
I  needs  must  linger  while  I  live, 

And  neither  enter  nor  depart, 
Since  you  forget  me  and  forgive. 


POEMS  33 


XVII 
APRIL 

WHAT  is  the  use  of  April — what  the  use 

Of  her  wild  dreams,  unless  you  bear  your  part  ? 

The  Spring  has  let  a  thousand  voices  loose, 
And  shall  not  one  find  way  into  your  heart  ? 


34  POEMS 

XVIII 
IN  THE  WOODS 

WHEN  Lancelot  and  Guinevere 
Walked  from  the  Maying  in  the  wood, 
Surely  they  little  understood 

How  much  there  was  for  hope  and  fear 
To  feed  upon,  and  how  the  next 
Short  hour  should  leave  them  love-perplexed 

And  irremediably  dear. 

I  think  her  hands  were  fine  and  fair 
For  capture  of  his  heart — her  eyes 
More  full  of  trouble  than  spring  skies 

When  the  late  snow-clouds  storm  the  air — 
Her  mouth  too  tender — and  I  guess 
How  close  she  caught  his  knightliness 

In  the  bright  bondage  of  her  hair. 

They  must  have  walked  a  little  way 
Quietly,  till  the  fear  and  hope 
In  silence  gained  too  great  a  scope, 

And  found  them  foolish  things  to  say ; 
And  then  the  foolishness  would  strike 
Like  poison  at  both  hearts  alike, 

And  set  their  perilous  looks  astray. 


POEMS  35 

The  eyes  and  cheeks  of  her  grew  hot, 
The  hands  and  mouth  of  her  grew  dry ; 
Her  heart  was  clamorous  for  reply, 

But  asked  not  and  was  answered  not, 
Till  in  a  sudden  dreadful  shout 
His  passionate  "  Guinevere  "  rang  out 

To  meet  her  pitiful  "  Lancelot." 


36  POEMS 


XIX 
THE  DETERMINIST  SPEAKS 

LAST  night  God  stood  beside  my  bed  in  tears 
Because  He  wrought  me  out  of  evil  clay, 
Granting  no  opportunity  or  way 

Whereby  I  might  be  stronger  than  the  fears 

That  cloud  my  sou],  the  evil  that  appears 
Within  me  and  without,  the  griefs  that  slay — 
"  Forgive,  forgive,"  was  all  He  found  to  say, 

"  And  put  aside  resentment  of  the  years." 

If  one  man  wrong  another  of  design 
And  make  him  sorry  he  was  made  to  live, 

The  doer  suffers  more — with  this  for  sign, 
Alien,  idle,  impotent,  fugitive, 
Yet  I  forgave — and  how  could  I  forgive 

Save  that  God's  sorrow  was  more  great  than  mine  ? 


POEMS  37 


XX 


HERE  by  the  light  of  the  piled-up  embers, 

Flickering  off  and  on  into  flame, 
If  out  of  its  hopes  the  heart  remembers 

What  never  was  so,  is  the  heart  to  blame  ? 
If  it  frames  her  face  in  the  shade  of  a  garden 

Where  all  the  hours^were  sweet  and  slow, 
For  sure,  if  she  knew,  she  would  smile  and  pardon 

The  heart  that  remembers  what  never  was  so. 


The  flower-beds  were  seemly  and  serious  ever, 

The  walks  quite  quiet  the  whole  year  long, 
Till  what  I  remember,  what  happened  never, 

Made  of  the  silence  a  place  of  song  ! 
Heart,  wild  heart,  like  fire  are  the  roses, 

And  all  the  tall  white  lilies  like  flame  ! 
If  the  heart  suggests,  if  the  heart  supposes, 

If  the  heart  desires,  is  the  heart  to  blame  ? 


38  POEMS 


XXI 

OH  I  think  that  I  have  journeyed,  far  and  very  far, 
Seeking  where  you  sojourn,  guessing  what  you  are, 
Following  where  your  feet  went  long  and  long  ago, 
And  cleaving  to  the  comfort  of  the  secret  that  I  know  ! 

True,  I  hold  your  hands,  dear,  but  they  know  not 

that  they  keep 

A  gift  of  greater  quiet  than  death  does,  or  than  sleep  ; 
True,  I  watch  your  eyes,  dear,  but  then  to  me  they 

mean 
More  by  all  infinity  than  the  things  they've  seen. 

If  I  drink  your  beauty  as  a  man  drinks  wine, 
If  I  hold  your  body  more  than  close  to  mine, 
If  I  nurse  your  spirit  as  the  glens  nurse  the  streams, 
What  is  it  all  but  dreaming,  dear,  and  what's  the 
worth  of  dreams  ? 


POEMS  39 

Shadowy  and  shifting  are  the  lights  of  sky  and  sea, 
Shadowy  and  shifting  are  the  thoughts  of  you  and  me, 
There's  neither  stable  earth  beneath  nor  wind  of 

truth  above, 
And  lo !  I  love  the  shadow  of  the  lady  that  I  love ! 

This  was  where  your  feet  went,  long  and  long  ago, 
And  shall  mine  not  follow  in  the  light  of  what  I  know  ? 
Oh  I  think  that  I  shall  journey  yet,  far  and  very  far, 
On  the  quest  of  where  you  sojourn,  in  the  hope  of 
what  you  are  ! 


40  POEMS 


XXII 

A  GARDEN  is  my  soul,  which  I 

Must  tend  or  slight  until  I  die, 

Or  as  a  mansion,  to  be  kept 

With  all  its  chambers  cleaned  and  swept. 

How  shall  I  make  my  garden  fit 
For  her  I  love  to  walk  in  it  ? 
How  shall  I  make  my  house  so  fair 
She  shall  be  glad  to  sojourn  there  ? 

I  will  arise  betimes,  and  toil 
To  break  the  unconsenting  soil, 
And  water  with  my  blood  and  sweat 
The  flowers  whose  summer  is  not  yet. 

But  all  I  can  is  not  enough  ; 
Ever  I  find  the  paths  too  rough 
For  those  dear  feet,  the  leaves  that  stir 
Not  musical  enough  for  her. 


POEMS  41 

And  what  when,  ere  the  task  is  o'er, 
There  proves  no  time  to  labour  more, 
And  I  must  bear  to  learn  my  fate, 
Because  my  love  stands  at  the  gate  ? 

Oh  then  if  she  consents  to  live 
In  the  poor  home  that  I  can  give, 
How  shall  my  garden  flush  with  blooms, 
And  splendour  reign  in  all  my  rooms ! 

But  if  she  looks  and  turns  away, 
How  shall  the  dark  invade  the  day, 
And  a  most  chilly  loneliness 
My  courts  and  corridors  possess  ! 

Then  shall  I  have  the  heart  to  weed, 
Or  sow  with  hope  of  future  seed  ? 
Shall  not  my  home  be  rather  thought, 
If  ill  for  her,  then  good  for  nought  ? 

Ah  no  !  for  I  shall  not  forget 
To  pay  the  past  so  high  a  debt, 
If  for  a  space  the  balance  stood 
Between  the  proofs  of  ill  and  good. 

My  love  shall  not  be  sad,  nor  think 
She  ever  let  her  fancy  link 
Her  life  unto  a  life  so  poor 
It  could  not  suffer  and  endure. 


42  POEMS 

She  shall  be  proud  that  just  because 
She  passed  by  where  my  garden  was 
From  the  base  world  there  could  arise 
A  soul  made  noble  by  her  eyes. 

She  shall  remember  without  shame 
How  to  my  gate  her  footsteps  came, 
And  how  she  doubted  her  intent 
Just  for  a  moment  ere  she  went. 

How — for  a  space  as  brief  and  dear 
As  when,  sometimes,  by  eye  and  ear, 
God's  glance  and  tone  are  strangely  caught — 
We  two  were  wedded  in  her  thought. 

Sweet  haunts  my  stable  strength  shall  win, 
As  though  for  her  to  walk  therein, 
And  I  will  make  my  mansion  fair 
Because  she  might  have  sojourned  there. 


POEMS  43 


XXIII 

LADSLOVE 

IF  you  have  me  for  sweetheart  and  I  have  you  for  dear 
There's  little  left  for  longing  and  little  left  to  fear  • 
The  hungry  winds  will  wander,  the  hungry  seas  will 

cry, 
But  we  shall  cease  from  hunger  and  let  sad  thoughts 

go  by. 

The  winds  must  leave  the  waters,  the  stars  must 

leave  the  night, 

Ere  we  be  done  with  loving  or  put  away  delight ; 
The  dawns  shall  all  be  golden,  the  skies  shall  all  be 

clear, 
If  you  have  me  for  sweetheart  and  I  have  you  for  dear. 


44  POEMS 


XXIV 

HERE  in  a  green  field  all  the  day 

I  have  lain  with  my  love  at  play  ; 

She  has  a  happy  dreamy  face 

Where  older  sorrow  than  she  knows 

Makes  shadows  suddenly,- and  goes 

Before  herself  is  quite  aware  ; 

She  has  an  idle  childish  way 

Of  letting  eager  fingers  stray 

Among  the  tangles  of  my  hair, 

While  all  her  ardours  interlace 

Their  sweetness  with  my  fondness  fast 

— Of  kissing  me  a  hundred  times, 

Each  kiss  pressed  closer  than  the  last, 

Mouth  one  with  mouth  in  long  embrace 

— Of  weaving  endless  sleepy  rhymes, 

As  foolish  as  a  baby's  games, 

About  our  never-parted  names  : 

She  has  a  body  full  of  grace 

As  morning  flowers  are  full  of  light ; 

She  is  so  wonderful  and  white 

And  passionate  and  soft  and  near, 

I  cannot  touch  her  without  fear 

— Ah !  how  to  guess  at  what  offence, 


POEMS  45 

What  bitter  plenitude  of  pain, 
What  hopes  and  visions  blindly  slain, 
What  sins,  what  ventures  held  for  vain, 
Have  purchased  the  world's  innocence  ? 


46  POEMS 


XXV 

ARTEMIS 

BECAUSE  your  eyes  are  cold,  your  heart 

Inviolably  austere, 
Shall  I  forego  my  chosen  part 

And  cease  to  hold  you  dear  ? 

Because  your  lips  are  ignorant 

Of  how  to  kiss  and  cling, 
Shall  mine  deny  their  purest  want 

Or  seek  another  thing  ? 

Rather  I  will  forego,  deny, 

The  rest  of  life  instead, 
And  make  my  talent  fit  to  buy 

A  better  thing  than  bread. 

You  take  what  no  one  can  restore  ; 

You  leave  the  strength  of  man ; 
My  hunger  shall  to  me  be  more 

Than  food  to  others  can. 


POEMS  47 

I  night  by  night  have  lain  awake 

And  burnt  with  the  desire 
To  have  those  cold  breasts  for  my  sake 

Enkindled  and  afire 

— To  feel  those  cold  arms,  warm  at  last, 

About  my  shoulders  be, 
And  those  cold  eyes  forget  the  past 

And  their  virginity. 

But  now  the  heat  of  youth  is  spent, 

And  chaster  fires  succeed  • 
Henceforth  my  spirit  is  content 

To  nurse  a  spirit-need : 

The  feet  of  men  shall  come  and  go, 

The  loves  of  men  shall  blaze  : 
I  in  my  loneliness  shall  know 

The  light  of  larger  days. 

To  lose  and  to  renounce  shall  seem 

More  blest  than  to  obtain ; 
The  past  is  but  a  shaken  dream, 

And  yet  not  dreamt  in  vain. 

For  I  win  strength  to  bear  and  do 

Whatever  life  has  planned 
And  somewhere  in  the  future  you 

— You  too  will  understand. 


POEMS 

When  song  has  ceased  out  of  your  breath 

And  flame  out  of  the  stars, 
And  you  and  I  and  life  and  death 

Are  met  beyond  the  bars, 

Neither  your  pureness  shall  lose  power 

Nor  I  be  still  denied 
Nor  flesh  be  troubled  in  that  hour 

When  I  shall  claim  my  bride. 


POEMS  49 


XXVI 

GIVE  me  quiet,  that  I  may  put  to  sleep 

My  eyes  and  heart, 
Where  the  silences  are  wide,  the  shadows  deep, 

In  a  place  apart. 

I  will  not  have  the  noise  of  falling  streams 

To  lull  me  there, 
Nor  the  soft  raiment  and  swift  feet  of  dreams 

Upon  the  air. 

Laughter  and  tears  and  memory  and  desire 

Must  all  be  done ; 
I'll  have  no  chill  of  wind  nor  warmth  of  fire, 

Nor  star,  nor  sun. 

In  wide  grey  spaces  under  wide  grey  skies 

My  rest  I'll  keep  ; 
Give  me  quiet,  that  I  may  put  my  eyes 

And  heart  to  sleep. 


50  POEMS 


XXVII 

THE  clouds  have  wings  but  fly  not, 

The  winds  have  strength  but  spare  ; 
The  quiet  eve  approves  me 

Because  I  hush  my  prayer; 
I  know  she  would  deny  not 

Her  heart's  appointed  task 
— I  know  my  lady  loves  me, 

And  yet  I  will  not  ask. 

But  when  the  sky  shall  flower 

With  keener  light  than  eve's, 
And  midnight  take  the  measure 

Of  what  my  soul  believes 
— Then  verily  shall  power 

Fulfil  the  thing  it  can, 
And  right  be  one  with  pleasure, 

And  maid  be  one  with  man. 


POEMS  51 


XXVIII 

Lo,  I  have  doubted  and  complained, 

And  feared  the  things  that  might  come  to  pass  ; 

I  have  missed  the  message  of  the  wind  in  the  grass, 

I  have  stood  in  the  sunlight  and  not  warmed  me, 

I  have  not  washed  my  soul  when  the  Heav'ns  rained, 

I  have  denied  the  God  whose  breath  informed  me ; 

I  have  been  walled  in  by  the  hard  wall  of  air, 

Resisting  because  it  would  not  seem  to  resist ; 

I  have  left  the  lips  of  my  loved  ones  unkissed, 

And  forgotten  to  find  my  friends  always  fair. 

But  now  I  have  been  given  the  great  gift 

Whereby  the  wall  is  broken  and  the  clouds  lift ; 

I  have  learnt  how  wide  and  pure  the  wind  is 

Through  the  late  hours  of  afternoon  in  summer — 

How  it  comes  timely  and  expected  to  the  land, 

And  finds  all  easy  to  understand 

Because  it  does  not  question  the  mysteries — 

How,  like  a  well-contented  comer 

To  halls  that  greet  him  quietly,  it  blesses 

All  the  spaces  from  the  sky  to  the  sky  ; 

The  little  happy  rivers  in  their  golden  dresses 

Sing  and  dance  for  it  and  know  not  why  ; 

Blue  seas,  blue  hills,  are  young  to  its  caresses, 

And  there  is  only  itself  to  know  it  by. 


52  POEMS 

Now  I  understand  the  wind  and  all ; 

There  is  not  an  hour  of  the  day  that  is  not  mine  ; 

I  have  a  host  of  dreams  that  come  at  my  call, 

Each  more  than  dear,  more  than  divine. — 

Can  you  guess  what  it  was  that  had  power  to  bring 

My  soul  to  drink  of  these  heavenly  streams  ? 

Do  you  know  what  it  was  that  gave  me  the  key  of 

dreams, 

That  opened  the  heart  of  the  wind,  and  of  every- 
thing ? 

It  was  that  once,  as  I  sat  at  your  feet, 
My  heart  breaking  with  the  joy  to  be  there, 
You  put  out  your  hand,  my  beloved,  my  sweet, 
You  put  out  your  hand  and  touched  my  hair. 


POEMS  53 


XXIX 

THE  deepest  seas  and  the  furthest  lands 
Men  have  joined  with  roads  and  ships, 

But  all  my  thought  is  the  linking  of  hands 
And  all  my  joy  is  the  joining  of  lips. 

With  blaring  of  colour  and  shining  of  sound 

On  dim  crusades  the  heroes  go  : 
What  have  they  conquered  or  what  have  they  found 

More  than  this  that  children  know  ? 

Surely  the  hours  are  ill  to  spend 
And  the  things  of  the  world  are  ill  to  do 

Unless  each  heart  be  lover  and  friend 
Of  all  hearts  else  the  whole  world  through. 

Space  and  time  shall  drift  and  break 
That  none  hath  measured  or  understood ; 

But  here  is  eternity  all  to  make 
Ours  :    and  so  shall  we  find  it  good, 


54  POEMS 


XXX 

THE  KNIGHT  ERRANT 

LADY,  I  know  your  gaze  is  bent 

Across  a  listening  continent 

To  where  your  sky-line  far  and  pale 

Expects  the  lifting  of  my  sail 

Out  of  the  world  it  shuts  from  view 

— The  sky-line  between  me  and  you ! 

O  Lady,  Lady  of  my  dreams, 
O'er  windy  hills  and  tangled  streams 
You  watch  until  my  ship  shall  ride 
The  front  of  the  arriving  tide  ; 
You  watch  until  the  shore  shall  feel 
The  shock  of  my  expected  keel ! 

You  know  how  tall  the  plume  that  I 

Shall  shake  against  the  morning  sky, 

How  bright  my  sword  and  lance  ;  you  know 

The  very  road  that  I  must  go, 

Whereon  my  horse's  hoofs  in  fire 

Shall  beat  the  tune  of  my  desire. 


POEMS  55 

So  do  your  eyes  expect  me  still 
To  top  the  summit  of  the  hill ; 
So  are  your  ears  prepared  to  note 
My  trumpet  blown  beyond  the  moat ; 
So  do  your  heart  and  soul  await 
My  hand  in  summons  at  your  gate ! 


Because  of  this  the  dawns  arise 
For  me  into  enchanted  skies, 
And  twilight  knits  a  trembling  space 
About  the  shadows  of  your  face, 
And  all  the  hours  of  darkness  are 
Made  vast  with  you  as  with  a  star. 

And  thus  for  you  the  dusk  is  tense 
With  music  of  mine  imminence, 
And  shifting  shafts  of  noon  define 
The  journey  that  shall  yet  be  mine, 
And  dimly  through  the  starlit  air 
Mine  eyes  confront  you  unaware. 

Lo !  in  this  service  year  by  year 
My  heart  sets  to  you  as  a  spear 
Sets  to  the  battle's  central  roar, 
Or  as  the  tide  turns  to  the  shore, 
Or  as  the  wind  yearns  to  be  free, 
Or  as  Orion  seeks  the  sea ! 


56  POEMS 

Lo  !  I  shall  come — the  years  are  cast 
Vaguely  into  the  vacant  past 
Like  stones  into  a  well :    a  smile 
Is  lovely  on  your  lips  the  while, 
And  still  your  eyes  unsleeping  keep 
The  secret  of  the  wells  of  sleep. 

You  see  no  novel  thing  nor  strange ; 

You  change  not  with  the  moons  that  change  ; 

The  blowing  and  the  fading  flowers 

Return  upon  the  unreckoned  hours  ; 

The  wandering  seas  that  win  and  lose 

Neither  reward  you  nor  refuse. 

But  ah  !  the  meeting  when  at  last 

Those  hindering  seas  are  overpassed, 

And  the  coiled  continents  unfold 

My  silver  spear  and  plume  of  gold 

— When  streams  are  crossed  and  gates  flung  wide, 

And  the  long  quest  is  satisfied  ! 


POEMS  57 


XXXI 
AUTUMN  DAWN 

I  WOKE  to  find  the  world  full  of  the  morning, 

And  garnished  gold  and  blue 
With  peace  and  passion  sent  for  sweet  forewarning 

Of  what  the  day  should  do 
— Of  what  the  day  in  happy  hands  was  bringing, 

Oh  day  all  days  above, 
Wrhose  mouth  of  song  was  consecrate  to  singing, 

Whose  eyes  of  love,  to  love  ! 

I  woke  to  feel  the  wafture  of  her  tresses 

Let  loose  to  the  sunbeams, 
Whom  all  night  long  with  pitiful  caresses 

I  had  wooed  in  barren  dreams ; 
I  woke  to  find  her  warm  face  bent  above  me 

More  fair  than  the  sunshine  ; 
I  woke  to  feel — how  came  my  love  to  love  me  ? — 

Her  mouth,  dear  God  !  to  mine  ! 


58  POEMS 


XXXII 
MEMORY 

WORST  gift  and  best  of  all  God's  gifts  to  men, 
Memory !     He  shaped  thee  as  a  crystal  ball 
Of  light,  fulfilling  and  comprising  all ; 

Thou  wast  His  purpose,  His  design — and  then 

He  shattered  thee  to  fragments,  and  again 

Shall  mould  and  fashion  thee  of  words  that  fall, 
Hopes  that  deceive  and  memories  that  call, 

And  scriptures  wonderful  of  blade  and  pen. 


Worst  gift  and  best ! — for  thou  hast  rendered  vain 
Death  and  farewell,  and  knowest  to  beget 

Comfort  and  balm  the  soul  is  sick  to  gain. 

Best  gift  and  worst ! — for  thou  art  good — and  yet 

Thou  hast  filled  our  eyes  with  tears,  wherethrough 

we  strain 
To  see  thy  face — and  lo  !  thou  art  Regret  ! 


POEMS  59 


XXXIII 
THE  HEART   OF   THE   FIRE 

HEART  of  the  dying  fire,  as  bright  and  dear 

As  life,  and  as  surely  given  over  to  death  ; 

As  full  of  dreams  as  the  wind  that  wandereth, 

As  full  of  voices  as  the  falling  year  ! — 

All  the  tears  of  the  world  have  quenched  thee  not, 

All  the  eyes  of  the  world  have  looked  on  thee, 

Little  lone  fire  in  a  lone  spot, 

In  the  little  chamber  loved  so  well  of  me  ! 

I  am  friends  with  the  fire  by  night  when  the  shadows 

grow, 

And  the  flames  shudder  and  flap  among  the  coals, 
And  the  flames  and  the  shadows  are  like  lost  souls, 
And  the  shadows  shudder  and  flap,  and  the  hours 

are  slow  ; 

For  then  I  look  into  the  heart  of  the  dying  fire, 
And  I  know  not  what  it  means,  nor  what  I  desire, 
But  mine  ears  are  awake  to  music  blown  from  far, 
And  my  sight  is  charged  with  visions  ;  and  my  heart 
Stirs  suddenly,  and  I  am  rapt  apart 
And  burn  alone  in  silence  like  a  star ; 


60  POEMS 

And  the  silence  is  full  of  sound,  and  the  sound  is 

still, 

And  there  is  no  motion,  neither  any  rest ; 
And  colour  and  light  are  mingled  to  fulfil 
What  on  earth  is  always  yearned  for  and  never 

possessed. 

Last  night  the  voices  as  I  sat  alone 
Called  with  a  long  cry  and  a  far  cry, 
Summoning  myself  out  from  myself ;  and  I 
Went  with  them  easily ;  for  body  and  sense 
Were  lulled  into  an  indolent  impotence, 
Rocked  with  the  rocking  of  the  shadows  thrown 
By  the  flames  that  slumbered  and  woke  and  would 

not  die. 

Then — a  strange  landscape  with  a  thousand  streams, 
Blue  airs,  and  valleys  such  as  no  man  tills, 
A  trumpet  blowing  lonely  on  the  hills ; 
And  "  Lo  !  "  I  said,  "  the  country  of  my  dreams  !  " — 
There  had  I  wandered  to  delightful  measures, 
There  in  the  sunrise  at  the  birth  of  years, 
With  those  invincible  unthinking  pleasures 
That  come  back  on  the  memory  like  a  blow 
When  the  red  dawning  and  the  glint  of  spears 
Shine  round  about  us ;  and  before  we  know 
The  glamour  and  the  rapture  break  and  go 
And  the  grey  day  strikes  empty  through  our  tears. 
All  the  fond  forms  came  back  of  what  had  been, 
Like  mountain-peaks  emerging  from  a  cloud, 
No  mere  remembrance,  but  as  things  twice  seen  ! — 


POEMS  61 

I  knew  them  and  rejoiced  and  cried  aloud. 
Heart  of  the  dying  fire,  what  is  the  power 
You  have  on  the  heart,  and  the  brain,  and  the  life 

of  me  ? 

Looking  at  you  I  saw  the  world  in  flower, 
And  fired  with  ardours  of  eternity : — 
Valleys  and  castles  and  rivers  of  song  and  of  story ; 
The  long  white  road  of  all  desire ;    the  free 
Gusts  of  the  four  horizons  ;    and  in  glory 
The  gaunt,  the  wind-saluted  promontory, 
Bracing  itself  against  the  beating  sea. 
I  saw  a  town  to  the  triumphant  noon 
Shouting  and  waving  flags  and  clapping  hands, 
As  through  the  concourse  came  the  bannered  bands, 
Victors  of  many  fights  and  many  lands 
— The  swing  and  thunder  of  the  marching  feet, 
The  shattering  trumpets  and  sweet  bells  in  tune  : 
Lo  !  how  it  offered  a  storm  of  praise  and  prayers 
From  porch  and  dome,  the  market  and  the  street, 
The  flaunting  houses  and  the  streaming  squares  ! 
— Yonder  a  valley,  and  in  the  valley  a  mist, 
And  in  the  mist  a  host  moving  unseen  ; 
Ever  and  again  a  hundred  points  up-tossed, 
Banners  and  lances  brave  in  the  wind  and  kissed 
By  the  sun,  and  then  dipping  again,  and  lost, 
As  the  masts  of  a  mighty  fleet  in  the  trough  of  the 

sea 

Leap  to  the  blue  and  dip  to  the  rolling  green ; 
So  seemed  the  light  of  banner  and  lance  to  me. 


62  POEMS 

And  passing,  flooded  my  soul  with  a  sudden  sorrow, 
Mixed  of  the  menace  of  some  vague  to-morrow 
And  the  blood  and  tears  of  a  mournful  might-have- 
been. 

And  thinly  and  faintly,  as  ancient  memory  calls, 
The  clatter  and  trample  and  jingle,  ringing  clear, 
Came  to  me  mixed  with  winds  and  waterfalls, 
Far-sounding  through  the  distance,  strange  to  hear. 
And  now  methought  the  day  was  almost  done  ; 
Only  the  red  west  scarred  the  twilight  hours  ; 
And  I  beheld  a  river,  and  thereby 
A  castle  old  and  grey  amid  the  sky, 
Lifting  against  that  tumult  of  the  sun 
The  bleak  defiance  of  its  soundless  towers, 
Where  men  in  armour  all  the  night  must  lie 
And  ladies  have  small  comfort  of  their  bowers  ; 
For  one  rode  up,  and  stayed  beneath  the  walls, 
And  blew  upon  a  trumpet  thrice,  and  turned, 
And  still,  behind,  the  fires  of  sunset  burned, 
And  there  was  silence  in  the  listening  halls. 
Then  lo  ! — a  chapel,  old  and  quiet  and  dim, 
Full  of  the  chanting  of  the  vesper  hymn, 
Incense  and  white  apparel  and  candles  lit, 
And  faces  holy  through  the  gloom  of  it. 
Far  inland,  in  a  hollow  between  two  heights, 
Shone  to  the  west  a  solitary  lake  ; 
And  beyond,  a  city,  lovely  for  the  sake 
Of  those  dim  spires  and  far-off  evening  lights. 
— And  now  the  moon  rode  high  among  the  stars 


POEMS  63 

And  turned  the  waters  to  a  faery  sea, 

Where  all  the  ways  were  silver,  and  led  on 

To  fanes  and  domes  and  cupolas  that  shone 

Invisibly  below  the  sky-line  ;    there 

Were  elfin  caves  and  haunts  of  wizardry, 

Imagined  homes  of  what  is  far  and  fair ; 

And  the  moon  shed  a  million  points  and  bars 

Of  glory,  and  the  spray  was  full  of  light ; 

Wonder  and  expectation  held  the  air, 

And  a  great  whiteness,  like  a  burning  fire, 

Embracing  all  that  magic  and  desire  ; 

White  was  the  beach,  and  white  the  cliffs,  and  white 

The  ancient  vasts  and  silences  of  night. 

Earth,  sky  and  sea  were  hushed  and  tense  ;    and  I 

Felt  my  heart  beat  to  the  stillness  more  and  more 

— Till  dawned  a  faery  ship  where  sea  met  sky 

And  sailed  in  silk  and  silver  to  the  shore. 

It  touched  ;  and  straightway  on  the  beach  were  met, 

Stung  by  the  wind  and  with  the  waters  wet, 

Two  forms  that  clung  and  kissed  away  regret. 

Suddenly,  swiftly,  to  the  wandering  moon 

A  cloud  put  out  its  arms,  and  that  embrace 

Obscured  the  world :    mixed  in  the  flying  race 

Cloud  after  cloud  came  up  the  steep,  and  soon 

Of  many  hills  only  a  single  hill 

Was  largely  visible  ;    upon  its  crest 

A  solitary  pine  stood  black  and  still, 

Lifting  its  branches  in  a  prayer  for  rest, 

Waiting  until  the  gathering  dark  should  sweep 


64  POEMS 

About  it,  and  a  time  be  come  for  sleep  ; 
And  near  and  near  the  swirling  darkness  swept, 
And  the  night  came  about  it,  and  it  slept. — 
And  I  at  once  out  of  my  waking  dream 
Woke,  and  called  back  my  senses  from  the  void, 
And  knew  the  link  with  that  sweet  past  destroyed, 
And   thoughts   re-ranged   that   had   been   tempest- 
tossed 

Afar  like  boats  upon  a  wildering  stream  ; 
And  all  things  different,  and  one  thing  lost. 
But  still  there  abode  with  me  and  would  not  go 
What  was  not  memory  nor  need,  and  yet 
Fulfilled  my  spirit  lest  I  should  forget 
The  glamour  and  the  glory  and  the  glow, 
And  the  dear  paths  my  feet  had  learnt  to  know : 
As  one  in  passing  sees  a  casual  face 
Half-turned  a  moment  in  the  hurrying  street, 
And  always  afterwards  those  eyes  are  sweet 
To  think  upon,  and  kind,  yet  vague  and  far, 
And  known  not  clearly  whence  or  what  they  are 
— So,  so  the  winds  and  lights  for  a  brief  space, 
The  thoughts  and  dreams,  were  keen  about  my  heart, 
Soon  to  grow  dim,  but  never  to  depart. 
The  trivial  chamber  and  the  smouldering  grate 
Were  changed,  and  charged  with  silence  and  with 

fate, 

And  dusk  and  wavering  as  a  doubtful  sky, 
And  strange,  because  so  usual  and  so  nigh. 
Then  thou  cam'st  to  me  suddenly  in  the  room, 


POEMS  65 

Turning  thy  face  up  flowerlike  in  the  gloom, 
Putting  thine  arms  about  me  ;    and  thine  eyes 
Met  mine  that  leapt  to  meet  them  ;   and  I  saw 
A  slow  emotion  mixed  of  love  and  awe 
Grow  in  them  like  the  morning  in  the  skies. 
Love,  O  my  love  !  I  knew  was  waiting  there, 
And  awe  was  thine  because  thou  cam'st  to  share 
All  I  had  seen  of  marvellous  and  fair ; 
All  that  in  this  no  longer  lonely  spot 
In  the  heart  of  the  dying  fire  I  had  learnt  to  see 
— All  that  I  dreamt,  all  that  I  knew,  of  what 
The  one  thing  lost,  when  found,  should  prove  to  be. 


E 


66  POEMS 


XXXIV 
GOOD-BYE 

AN  hour  ago  the  west  and  east  were  bright    . 

And  you  were  here  with  me  ; 
Now,  the  first  shadow  of  the  coming  night 

Has  altered  sky  and  sea, 
And  where  you  stood  there  is  an  empty  place, 

And  here  alone  am  I 
With  the  grey  moors,  the  memory  of  your  face, 

And  yon  grey  sky. 

The  lonely  stars  are  breaking  one  by  one, 

The  moon  rides  high  and  pale  ; 
But  life  for  me  falls  with  the  fallen  sun, 

Wails  with  the  seas  that  wail. 
Then  was  the  glory  round  me,  now  the  gloom  ; 

But  here  alone  am  I 

With  the  dark  waves,  and  thoughts  of  death  and 
doom, 

And  so — good-bye. 


POEMS  67 


XXXV 

I  KNOW  a  wood  where  the  winds  make  all  day  long 
A  sighing  sound  and  a  sobbing  sound,  and  keep 
Their  sorrows  unassuaged  of  any  song, 
Hopeless  of  death  and  ignorant  of  sleep : 
I  lie  in  the  wood  and  look  up  at  the  blue  sky 
Between  the  branches  leafy  or  bare  above, 
And  the  hunger  of  wood  and  wind  and  season  is  I, 
But  the  blue  deeps  are  the  blue  eyes  of  my  love. 


Grey  cascades  in  the  breast  of  a  brown  hill 
Feed  the  stream  that  here  is  friends  with  me  ; 
It  dreams  of  a  faery  lake  that  it  shall  fill, 
And  finds  only  the  salt  and  barren  sea ; 
I  watch  the  shadows  shift  and  the  gleams  go  by, 
Obscure  with  the  pools  below  and  the  clouds  above, 
And  the  trouble  of  earth  and  air  and  water  is  I, 
But  the  heart  of  the  stream  is  the  strange  heart  of 
my  love. 


68  POEMS 

The  ancient  battle  goes  on  by  the  river's  marge, 
— The  sunlight  on  the  plumes  of  knights  and  lords. 
The  blowing  of  trumpets,  the  clatter  and  clash  of  the 

charge, 

The  glancing  of  lances  and  the  breaking  of  swords. 
I  hear  a  song  in  praise  of  them  that  die, 
I  see  the  light  of  the  bright  flag  flown  above  ; 
And  the  old  quest  and  the  old  desire  is  I, 
But  the  voice  of  the  call,  as  of  old,  is  the  love  of  my 

love. 


POEMS  69 


XXXVI 

SMOOTH  the  pillow  out, 

Where  I  shall  see  your  head 

Lying  with  loose  hair  spread 

When  the  dawn  comes  in  to  find 

Two  lovers  close  and  kind 
— What  should  your  hands  be  busy  about 

But  making  our  bed  ? 

And  yet,  I  have  loved  so  long 

Those  hands,  and  all  they  do 

— Your  hands,  and  all  of  you — 

That  now,  when  they  caress 

The  couch  of  our  happiness, 
My  heart  cries  out  as  at  bitter  wrong 

To  find  this  true. 

I  have  hoped,  with  so  much  fear ; 

I  have  laboured  so  to  be 

Of  this  pure  precinct  free, 

I  tremble,  having  won 

— What  is  this  you  have  done, 
Giving  a  life  so  thrice  too  dear 

To  me,  to  me  ? 


70  POEMS 

O  delicate  and  frail 

And  faint  and  fond  and  far  ! 
Pale  as  a  drowning  star 
In  a  moving  sea  of  mist 
— Too  tender  to  be  kissed, 

Yet  never  so  perilous,  never  so  pale, 
As  now  you  are  ! — 

Dear   give  me  strength  to  keep 
Our  strong  and  splendid  vow ! 
From  that  bright  burning  brow 
Put  off  the  aureole 
— Be  body  as  well  as  soul ! 

You  that  have  taught  a  dread  so  deep, 
Teach  courage  now ! 


POEMS 


XXXVII 
LOVE'S  TENDERNESS 

BETWEEN  my  hands  your  little  face 
Lies  like  pale  water  in  a  cup, 
Or  some  soft  blossom  gathered  up 
Thus  tenderly,  to  lose  no  grace 
It  shone  with  in  its  woodland  place. 

Your  soul  is  like  your  face,  I  think 
— As  meek,  as  holy  and  as  fair 
— A  flower  too  wonderful  to  wear, 
Water  too  delicate  to  drink: 
Yet  love  instructs  me  not  to  shrink. 

Suppose  I  bruise  these  petals  pure  ? 
Suppose  I  spill  the  water  ?  Well, 
If,  asking  that,  I  glimpse  at  Hell, 

What  need  to  let  the  doubt  endure  ? 

In  Heav'n,  is  not  the  soul  secure  ? 


72  POEMS 


XXXVIII 

I  ASK  not  less 

Of  you,  love,  than  the  whole — 
Your  beauty  and  your  tenderness, 
The  lights  and  shadows  of  your  soul. 

Since  give  I  must, 

What  give  I  in  return  ? 

— Not  wisdom  :  all  my  wit  is  just 

To  look  into  your  eyes  and  learn. 

No  grace  nor  gift 

To  furnish  you  delight 

— No  talent  pure  enough  to  lift 

Into  the  sanction  of  your  sight. 

Not  joys,  for  they 
Are  merely  sprung  from  you  ; 
Nor  fading  sorrows  laid  away 
For  ever  out  of  reach  and  view. 


POEMS  73 

Yet,  O  my  dear ! 

One  gift  is  mine  indeed 

— One  passion  fit  for  you  to  hear, 

One  virtue  fit  for  me  to  plead! 

From  you  to  me 
Come  earth  and  heav'n  afire 
I  bring  you  my  humility, 
My  need,  my  worship,  my  desire. 


74  POEMS 


XXXIX 

FORGET  the  wrong  ;    you  know  it  was  not  meant ; 

The  ancient  purpose  of  the  stars  was  knit 

With  trivial  trouble  for  the  cause  of  it, 
And  the  mouth  spake  without  the  heart's  consent. 
So  long  I  had  been  loyal ! — the  event 

Of  noon  became  the  morning's  opposite ; 

All  the  long  years  had  won  by  worth  or  wit 
One  wasteful  moment  pitiably  spent. 

As  comes  the  west  wind  from  an  isle  afar, 
Dim  in  the  distance  like  a  shrouded  star, 

Your  voice  comes  from  the  time  not  yet  at  hand  : — 
"  All  wrongs  are  made  immortal  from  their  birth, 
And  I  forget  not ;  what  is  better  worth, 

I  do  forgive  you,  for  I  understand." 


POEMS  75 


XL 

A  LITTLE  bird  of  song 

Flew  forth  from  the  cage  of  my  breast. 
Till  it  came  where  my  dreams  belong 

And  there  found  rest. 

Out  of  my  heart  it  flew 

And  its  flight  was  fast  and  far, 

Yet  I  loosed  it  not,  nor  knew 
That  the  door  stood  ajar. 

Far,  fast,  its  flying  was, 

Till  it  came  where  my  thoughts  belong, 
And  my  darling  grew  glad  because 

Of  the  bird  of  song. 


76  POEMS 


XLI 

PHANTASY 

"  MAIDEN  of  the  soft  speech  and  quiet  ways, 
Maiden  of  the  strange  face  and  shadowed  hair, 
Why  are  your  eyes  for  ever  made  aware 

Of  something  further  than  all  nights  and  days  ?  " 

"  The  nights  and  days  pass  by,  the  months  and  years  ; 
I  wait  for  something  which  shall  not  pass  by, 
When  there  shall  come  a  King  with  clamour  and 
cry, 

With  banners  and  the  light  of  shaken  spears." 

"  Comes  he  in  peace  as  stars  come  in  the  night, 
Or  will  the  blood  be  black  along  his  blade  ? 
Will  his  lips  laugh,  that  none  need  be  afraid, 

Or  his  eyes  be  terrible  out  of  the  fight  ?  " 

"  Neither  in  peace  nor  war  he  entereth, 

Neither  with  laughter  comes  he  nor  in  wrath  ; 
Glad  will  the  trumpets  be  about  his  path, 

And  terrible  his  eyes,  but  not  from  death." 


POEMS  77 


XLII 
LANCELOT  AND  GUINEVERE 

* 

SIR  LANCELOT  beside  the  mere 

Rode  at  the  golden  close  of  day, 
And  the  sad  eyes  of  Guinevere 

Went  with  him,  with  him,  all  the  way. 

The  golden  light  to  silver  turned, 
The  mist  came  up  out  of  the  mere, 

And  steadily  before  him  burned 
The  sombre  gaze  of  Guinevere. 

A  dreadful  chill  about  him  crept, 
The  pleasant  air  to  winter  turned  ; 

Like  the  wan  eyes  of  one  that  wept 
Far  through  the  mist  the  faint  stars  burned. 

All  that  had  sinned  in  days  gone  by 
Like  pale  companions  round  him  crept — 

All  that  beneath  the  morning  sky 

Had  called  the  night  to  mind  and  wept. 


78  POEMS 

But  strangest  showed  his  own  offence 
Of  all  the  shadows  creeping  by ; 

The  star  of  his  magnificence 
Fell  from  its  station  in  the  sky. 

The  lean  wind  robbed  him  of  his  pride  ; 

Keen  grew  the  sting  of  his  offence ; 
And  like  a  lamp  within  him  died 

The  flame  of  his  magnificence. 

The  drifting  phantoms  of  the  mere 
Were  death  to  pleasure  and  to  pride  ; 

The  joy  he  had  of  Guinevere 
Faded  into  the  dark  and  died. 

Oh  loss  of  hope  with  loss  of  day 
In  mist  and  shadow  of  the  mere  ! — 

Where  with  him,  with  him,  all  the  way, 
Went  the  sad  eyes  of  Guinevere. 


POEMS  79 


XLIII 
LIFE  AND  DEATH 

I  HAVE  lived — for  I  have  seen  afar 
Upon  the  silence  and  the  height 

Cities  enkindled  where  the  star 

Of  morning  slew  the  stars  of  night. 

I  have  died — for  I  have  watched  the  day 
Be  withered — as  myself  must  be — 

Slowly,  beyond  the  gathering  grey 
And  plangent  plunging  of  the  sea. 


8o  POEMS 


XLIV 

BETWEEN  my  lady  that  is  dead  and  me 

The  gates  stood  guarded,  after 
Unfriendly  earth  forbade  her  eyes  to  see 

And  shut  her  lips  from  laughter. 

There  was  no  coming  to  her,  no  embrace, 

No  hope  of  love's  to-morrow ; 
Only  the  pale  and  unforgotten  face 

— And  that  was  blurred  by  sorrow ! 

— Until  one  memory  brought  one  white  ray 

Across  the  night  of  living 
— One  memory  with  sweetest  words  to  say 

Of  healing  and  forgiving. 

It  brought  to  mind  the  waning  afternoon, 

The  shadows  growing  slowly, 
The  wide  encroaching  twilight,  and  the  moon, 

And  happiness  made  holy ; 

It  came  upon  me  like  a  winged  surprise 

Out  of  the  unlit  portal, 
With  wonderful  sweet  light  of  ageless  eyes 

And  touch  of  hands  immortal. 


POEMS  81 


XLV 

IF  we  met  no  more, 

Having  parted,    . 
Would  things  be  as  before 

For  the  broken-hearted  ? 
Would  the  rain  fall  ? 

Would  the  sun  shine  ? 
Would  anything  at  all 

Be  yours  or  mine  ? 

When  the  sun  shone  out 

Golden  and  clear, 
I  should  have  you  beyond  a  doubt 

As  near  as  you  ever  were  near ; 
When  the  high  hills  and  low  places 

Were  full  of  the  noise  of  rain, 
That  fairest  face  of  faces 

Would  be  with  me  again. 

If  death  meant  dying, 

If  love  could  pass, 

Think  you,  would  birds  have  wings   for   flying, 
Would  flowers  be  born  amid  the  grass  ? 
Surely  all  beautiful  things 
Shall  always  be  ours — 
Remember  the  beating  of  wings 
And  the  shining  of  flowers. 


8a  POEMS 


XLVI 

I  WATCH  my  lady  sitting  alone  at  her  ease 

By  the  shaded  lamp,  drooping  the  lids  of  her  eyes  ; 

The  line  of  her  cheek  moves  me  ;  her  bosom's  rise 
Shakes  my  blood  ;  her  hands  are  slack  on  her  knees. 
The  air  about  her  is  hushed  because  she  is  still ; 

Hope  strangles  my  breath,  but  is  quick  to  elude 
The  grope  of  my  soul,  my  sudden  and  resolute  will ; 

My  lady  is  dim  and  distant,  not  to  be  wooed. 

I  watch  my  lady  sit  alone  for  a  while  ; 

She  has  not  stirred  at  all,  nor  made  a  sign  ; 

Her  hands  are  soft  and  subtle  ;    they  should  be 

mine  ; 

I  desire  her  lips,  half  shut  in  a  half  smile  ; 
The  rise  of  her  bosom  moves  me  ;  I  am  caught 

By  the  sense  of  the  days  I  lose,  the  nights  I  waste  ; 
My  lady  is  fair  as  a  dream  and  strange  as  a  thought ; 

My  lady  is  warm  and  tender,  to  be  embraced. 


POEMS  83 


XLVII 
SUNSET 

PURE  gold,  pure  gold,  beneath  a  bank  of  storm, 
And  poplars  standing  up  amid  the  gold  ! 

Ah  God,  to  find  in  colour  and  in  form 
The  faith  that  grows  not  old ! —    - 

To  feel  all  bitterness  forgot,  as  now 

That  setting  sun  forgets  the  wrath  of  years, 

And  wear,  like  Heav'n,  upon  a  gentle  brow, 
The  peace  that  follows  tears  ! 


84  POEMS 


XLVIII 
OXFORD 

I  CAME  to  Oxford  in  the  light 

Of  a  spring-coloured  afternoon  ; 
Some  clouds  were  grey  and  some  were  white, 

And  all  were  blown  to  such  a  tune 
Of  quiet  rapture  in  the  sky, 
I  laughed  to  see  them  laughing  by. 

I  had  been  dreaming  in  the  train 
With  thoughts  at  random  from  my  book ; 

I  looked,  and  read,  and  looked  again, 
And  suddenly  to  greet  my  look 

Oxford  shone  up  with  every  tower 

Aspiring  sweetly  like  a  flower. 

Home  turn  the  feet  of  men  that  seek, 
And  home  the  hearts  of  children  turn, 

And  none  can  teach  the  hour  to  speak 
What  every  hour  is  free  to  learn ; 

And  all  discover,  late  or  soon, 

Their  golden  Oxford  afternoon. 


POEMS  85 


XLIX 
CHILD'S  SONG 

I  KNOW  the  sky  will  fall  one  day 

— The  great  green  trees  will  topple  down, 
The  spires  will  wither  far  away 

Upon  the  battlemented  town  ; 
When  winds  and  waves  forget  to  flow 

And  the  wild  song-birds  cease  from  calling, 
Then  I  shall  take  my  shoes  and  go 

To  tell  the  King  the  sky  is  falling. 

There's  lots  of  things  I've  never  done, 

And  lots  of  things  I'll  never  see  ; 
The  nearest  rainbow  ever  spun 

Is  much  too  far  away  for  me  ; 
But  when  the  dark  air's  lost  in  snow 

And  the  long  quiet  strikes  appalling, 
I  learn  how  it  will  feel  to  go 

To  tell  the  King  the  sky  is  falling. 


86  POEMS 


ENVOY 

THE  God  who  made  denial 

Has  made  fulfilment  too, 
And  failure  falls  for  trial 

Of  what  success  should  do. 
I  heard  church-bells  one  morning 

In  answer  to  my  need, 
And  half  their  song  was  warning, 

And  half  was  just  "God-speed." 

And  now  I  know  disaster, 

And  shames  beyond  recall, 
And  hopes  that  wither  faster 

Than  any  flower  at  all — 
But  still  the  bells  are  chiming 

Their  message  to  my  mind : 
"Are  hills  too  high  for  climbing  ? 

Are  seas  too  far  to  find  ?  " 


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The  Question 


£n*rfoh 


the   young   love    is    breaking 

into  flower, 

And  stands  upon  the  border  of  her  ho«r, 
Alert,  and   sweet,  and  swift, 
How  different  does  she  show 
From  all  the  flowers  that  erer  bloomed 

in  time! 
This   separate   sovereign   loveliness   can 

rhyme 
Only  with  its  own  moment.     What's  ta 

know, 
To  gather  from  that  shy  and  tnutfol 

pride? 

Or  what  has  innocence  to  hide? 
Then  go — 

Go  to  her,  brave  her,  ask!     Be  sura 
She  is  as  kind  as  she  is  pure: 
She  slept,  and  wakes,  and  tries  to  keep 
The  hush  and  flame  of  sleep. 
Go  to   her! — Nay: 
She  falters,  ruddy  with  amaze, 
A  dryad  half  awake, 
With  wonder  wid'ning  in  her  gaze 
Like  ripples  on  a  lake, 
And,  asking,  you  may  hurt  her.     Com* 
sway, 

While  there  is  time,  while  all  Is  yet  to 

say, 
Nor  tempt  the  moment.  Love,  you  know, 

is  strange: 
Men  call  love  changeless,  but  tha  world 

will  change. 
I  asked  too  much  of  love,  I  know  not 

how: 

Her  eyes  laughed  at  me  under  a  clear 

brow, 

And  then  one  day  nothing  was  as  before 
Through  the  still  hours— 0  debt  no  love 

can  pay! — 
My  love  lay  quiet  till  the  end  of  day, 

E*nd  then  rose  up,  and  went,  and  cam* 
no   more. 

GERALD  GOULD. 


